


i still search for you (in crowds, in empty fields, in soaring clouds)

by vixleonard



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Psychological Trauma, Reunions, Season/Series 08, Sibling Bonding, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: Reunions don't always mean you stop missing a person.





	i still search for you (in crowds, in empty fields, in soaring clouds)

**Author's Note:**

> Strictly show 'verse since Arya and Gendry's storylines diverged differently in the books
> 
> Title comes from the poem "Wishing Stars" by Lang Leav

Jon Snow rides through the gates of Winterfell with the Dragon Queen at his side, foreign armies in their wake and dragons flying overhead, and though their arrival is nothing like King Robert's arrival several lifetimes ago, Arya finds herself remembering how excited she'd been then, how excited they all had been. She'd stood and watched the people flow in, rushing to join her gathering family for introductions, and if she tries, she can still hear her father's voice that morning, can see the sly smiles of Robb and Jon and Theon. It had been the beginning of the end for her family that day, and they'd greeted their demise with smiles and graciousness. Even now Arya sees Sansa, the perfect Lady of Winterfell Arya could and would never be, greeting their half-brother and the Dragon Queen, and the Arya who has seen the darkest parts of men, who has traveled to places no one in her family has ever seen, who trained to kill without feeling, wonders if this heralds another ending, the true ending of House Stark.

But the Arya who said goodbye to her big brother at nine-years-old, who thought she'd never see him again, who refused to leave her heart even when she tried her hardest to be No One, all _that_ Arya can do is pray to the Old Gods and the New that this means they will survive the coming war.

The Dragon Queen's foreign soldiers stand at her back and Jon's as well, a couple of older Westerosi men and Tyrion Lannister included as well, and Arya sees that the Knights of the Vale and Northmen are not sure what to make of these strangers. These soldiers, Unsullied and Dothraki alike, look to be fierce, and none of the men dare approach them. Instead they stand silently at Sansa's back as she offers Winterfell to this strange woman.

Arya doesn't care. She doesn't care about crowns or thrones or who is her king or queen. She cares about Jon and getting to Jon, and when her feet hit the dirt of the yard, she doesn't think to do anything but run straight at him. One of the foreign soldiers steps forward, hand on a weapon, but Arya pivots, twists, kicks at his knee to knock him out of the way without him ever laying a finger on her, and later she will tell the Dragon Queen she needs better bodyguards but right now she is too busy flinging herself at Jon.

He catches her as easily now as he did the day they parted, his arms banding around her waist as hers twist around his neck. She will never be as tall as Sansa, but she's grown enough that her feet do not dangle as far off the ground as they once did. Jon must notice because he laughs against her ear, his voice wet with emotion, "Gods, you're so big. How did you get so big?"

She didn't cry when she saw Sansa or Bran, didn't even cry when Sansa showed her to the crypts for Father, Mother, Robb, and Rickon, but there is something about being in Jon's arms again that makes her chest tighten and lungs ache with the need to scream or laugh or do _something_. Instead she finds herself blurting out, "I missed you so much."

Somehow his grip on her tightens even more, but Arya doesn't complain. Instead she buries her face in his neck as he assures her, "I missed you more, little sister," and only then do tears finally sting her eyes.

She isn't certain how long they stand like that before Sansa says, "This is our sister Arya, Your Grace," and only then does Arya remember there are hundreds of strangers in their yard, thousands more outside the walls.

Arya finally loosens her grip on Jon, who loosens his as well, and the Dragon Queen smiles kindly at Arya as she says, "Yes, your brother has spoken of you a great deal. It's an honor to meet you, Lady Arya, and you as well, Lady Sansa."

In another life, she would've told Daenerys Targaryen not to call her a lady but then again, it's only ever bothered her to be called a lady by one person and one person only, and he died long ago, carried away by the Red Woman and sold by men she thought were friends.

"Allow me to introduce Ser Jorah Mormont, Missandei of Naath, and my Hand of the Queen Tyrion Lannister."

Sansa greets them, even smiling a little when Tyrion offers, "Hello again, wife," but Arya glares at the man. Daenerys, noticing Arya's expression, says, "Tyrion is no enemy of yours, Lady Arya. Jon can swear to that."

"Our only enemy is the common one of the things beyond the Wall," Tyrion says, "and I certainly mean your house no harm."

Arya snorts, unable to help herself. "I saw what was done to my brother and his wolf at The Twins. I saw what was done to my father. You'll excuse me if I do not believe anything a Lannister says."

Tyrion nods. "What was done was wrong, I agree."

"Good. Because I'm going to kill your sister and anyone who tries to stop me."

"Arya!" Sansa hisses, and for a moment the pitch of her voice is the same as it was when they were children and Arya did something to embarrass her horribly. She almost expects for Sansa to tug at her hair or pinch her to keep her quiet.

"My sister is pregnant."

"So was our good-sister, and that did not stop the Freys." Arya looks at Jon, holds his gaze for a long beat, and realizes the curious feeling in her chest right now is disappointment. "You shouldn't have brought him here."

"Arya - "

But she is already walking away, leaving her siblings, the Dragon Queen, and Tyrion Lannister standing in the yard with the rest of the strangers.

* * *

"I didn't know you were at the Twins, that you saw..."

Arya looks up from polishing Needle as Sansa enters her room, before returning to the task at hand. "The Hound was going to ransom me back to Mother and Robb. I snuck away, tried to stop it, but he hit me, saved my life probably. But when I woke..." She closes her eyes for a beat before opening them again. "I've seen terrible things in this world, but what they did to Robb and Grey Wind..."

"Tyrion didn't know it was going to happen. He was the only one who tried to comfort me after..." Sansa sighs as she sinks down beside her on the chaise. "He is a Lannister and no one has spent more time with Lannisters than I have. He may not be the sort of man Father would have found honorable, but he also isn't our enemy."

She returns Needle to its sheath and looks at Sansa. "I _am_ going to kill Cersei."

"Good."

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes when Sansa suddenly says, "I think Jon is in love with Daenerys."

"Explains why he bent the knee then. Men do stupid things when they're in love."

Sansa's lips twitch as if she wants to smile. "So you agree, it was stupid to bend the knee?"

"We need her men and her dragons. We can't win without them. It was tactically smart."

"But?" her big sister prods.

"We don't know her. We don't know if we can truly trust her. Queens are tricky."

"Can you be trickier?"

The look she gives Sansa says everything.

* * *

Another wave of men are coming today. Jon tells her this during breakfast, says there are men who were at the Wall who will be reaching them and how he isn't certain where they'll put more people. Arya is only half-listening to the conversation he and Sansa are having about the logistics of it, her attention focused on reading the lips of the queen across the hall, when she manages to catch, " - he's an armorer, so we'll put him in Mikken's forge."

Since returning to the castle, Arya has pointedly avoided Mikken's forge. Just the thought of it makes her remember Harrenhal, the heat of the fires, the way soot clung to skin, the singing of steel on steel. She can almost see him in front of her again, that silly boy who could make swords but couldn't swing one, and then she is shaking her head, trying to erase the image of him from her brain.

"Are you all right?" Bran asks her in that new, oddly flat voice of his, and Arya wishes for a moment that instead of some all-knowing seer, he was the little brother she'd laughed with and chased and pretended to be knights with when they were small. She does not want wisdom and magic right now; she wants Bran, long haired and smiling, always Mother's favorite with a comforting word when she was upset.

"Bit of a headache." She drains her cup and declares, "I'm going to get some fresh air."

But the moment she steps into the yard, she smells it, someone starting and stoking the fires in the forge, bringing the building to life, and Arya vows to hate whoever this strange armorer is when he arrives.

She is sparring with Brienne in the yard, their usual audience of just Podrick having swelled to many of the Queen's men, Ser Davos, and some of the Knights of the Vale when the new men start arriving. Arya is mid-spin, dancing away from one of Brienne's powerful swings, when she sees the Hound. Brienne, noticing her sudden stop, looks towards the gates, and she has barely finished saying Arya's name when Beric Dondarrion comes into view alongside a burly man with a great red beard and a few others with their hoods up obscuring their faces. Seeing the one-eyed man, Arya feels the rage and powerlessness of years earlier roaring like a caged beast in her chest, and she is suddenly crossing the yard as fast as she can, her hand wrapped around the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger given to her by Bran.

The Hound spots her first. He grunts, "Oh fuck," and reaches for her, but Arya is not going to kill him. She manages to avoid being caught by him, drawing the dagger to plunge it straight into Beric's heart and kill him for the last time, when a sudden iron grip encases her wrist. Arya jerks to look at who is trying to stop her, prepared to kill him too, and she freezes at the same time the man releases her wrist.

He's older now, his hair shorter, looking far cleaner than he ever did when they were on the road together. But it is _him_ , she knows it is him, and she doesn't understand how it could possibly be him when he died years ago, a victim of the Red Woman.

The shock on his face as he stares at her tells Arya he hadn't expected to find her here either. As she returns the dagger to her hip, aware that Ser Davos, Brienne, Podrick, and others are rushing across the yard to intervene on whatever it happening, Arya is still unsure if she is imagining this, if this is one of the vivid dreams she'll wake up from with a weight of sadness on her heart, until she hears Davos ask, "What's going on? Gendry?"

His name bursts out of her mouth for the first time since he was taken away from her, the last person in the world who was _hers_ , and this feels different than seeing Jon again. It is sharp and ragged, sawing through her heart. She vaguely registers the broken sound of her voice, almost as if her body has fought so long to keep his name from her lips that it resists it even now, and Gendry looks away from Ser Davos to look at her again.

“M’lady.”

Before, they’d never hugged. They’d touched innumerable times – to help the other, to protect the other, to push the other, to pass food – but despite all of the familiarity they had with each other, they were not affectionate. So even though all Arya wants to do is grab him, shake him, squeeze him, do _something_ , all she can do is stare at him.

“What’s going on?” Jon asks as he rushes from the castle, Sam and Sansa at his heels.

“Think there was some sort of misunderstanding, is all,” Davos says as the Hound chimes in, “She was going to kill Dondarrion.”

“Kill Dondarrion? Arya?”

Arya finally looks away from Gendry to meet her brother’s gaze. “I won’t kill him now.”

Jon’s face folds into even deeper confusion. “Now? Arya, why would you kill – You can’t just kill – “

Arya doesn’t hear the rest of his words. Instead she turns on her heel and leaves everyone in the yard.

* * *

“What happened in the yard today?” Sansa asks her when she brings a dinner plate to Arya’s room.

“I’m not hungry.”

Sansa sets the plate on the bedside table. “And I’m not a serving girl, so if you think I came here just to bring you dinner, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought.” Taking a seat next to Arya, she asks, “Is he on your list?”

She nods.

“Why?”

Arya wonders how long she could be silent before Sansa would give up before sighing. “The boy in the yard.”

“What boy?”

“I suppose he’s not a boy now. The man, then, the one with the hammer on his back.”

“The armorer? King Robert’s bastard?”

 _So that’s why the Gold Cloaks wanted him_. “His name is Gendry. He was my friend.”

“And Lord Beric did something to him?”

“He and Thoros of Myr gave him to the Red Woman, some witch who wanted him. I knew she was going to kill him. They were supposed to be our friends, and they sold him. He was the only friend I had, and they took him away.”

“You loved him.”

“He was all I had. After she took him, everything just got…harder.”

“I don’t think Jon understands what it was like in the South, not having friends, not having anyone to trust. Whatever happened at the Wall, he still had people by his side.” Sansa covers Arya’s hand with her own. “But you still cannot kill people who are going to help us beat the Others. We have to fight them first.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Only because you were stopped.” Sansa shakes her head. “I can’t pretend I understand what happened to you or the things you learned in Braavos. There was a time when I thought I’d never want to see anyone dead, and I know what it feels like to get the revenge you want. I’m glad you killed the Freys. I’m glad you killed Baelish. And if you do what you promised to do with Cersei, I certainly won’t be upset about that either. But you’re home now, Arya. You have family and friends again. Whoever is still on your list, just…wait to see if they survive the Others and _then_ come for them.”

“I’m not upset I didn’t get to kill Beric. If I still wanted him dead, he’d be dead right now.”

“Then why – “

“Because Gendry’s alive and I don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t know!” Calming herself, she repeats, “I don’t know.”

Arya knows Sansa squeezes her hand as a sign of support, but it still feels so much like pity.

* * *

It takes her until morning to screw up her courage and seek out her old friend. She dresses in her usual clothes, careful to pull her hair back from her face, and she hates that she feels the old sting of inadequacy, the wish that she was prettier like Sansa. She hates even more that she thinks it at all where Gendry is concerned. Whether or not she’s pretty shouldn’t matter about anything. And yet Arya finds herself studying her Stark features and wondering if Gendry will compare her to her sister or Queen Daenerys. 

The forge is lit when Arya enters, Gendry bent over a table with papers stretched across them, Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, Ser Jorah, and Davos looking at them as well. They must be plans for weapons and all of the dragonglass Jon mined from Dragonstone. Arya leans against the jamb inside the door, arms crossed over her chest, and listens to them speak about the weapons for a minute or two. It is as the Dragon Queen is gesturing to something on the page that Tyrion looks up and notices her.

“Lady Arya.”

Eight other sets of eyes suddenly turn on her, and Arya forces herself not to move. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please continue.”

Jon smiles at her, something cautious in his expression, and Arya imagines rapping his knuckles with a staff the way the Waif did to her when her face gave everything away. “Gendry is going to be making the weapons we use to fight the Others. I was thinking more swords than daggers, and Daenerys was thinking axes and arrowheads as well. What do you think?”

“You’ll want daggers too, for closer fighting. You should still make some.” Arya gestures behind her. “Mayhaps some of those things the Dothraki carry too, if you want them to be comfortable with it.”

“You think you can handle making this much?” Davos asks Gendry, and Arya is aware of the way his blue eyes turn towards the older man away from her. 

“If I have the men and women to help, it’ll be hard but it’s possible.”

“We’ll find you the men,” Daenerys promises. “This needs to be our top priority.”

“I’m sorry we can’t offer you a better forge, but the Boltons – “

“It’s a fine forge, my lord. I’ve worked in far worse.”

“Harrenhal’s was shit,” Arya recalls, and Gendry jerks his head towards her. Whatever he sees on her face makes his lips turn up into a soft smile.

“Aye, and it had that awful smell as well.”

Jon looks between the two of them, his forehead furrowed in thought. “Harrenhal? When you were at Harrenhal?” Something occurs to him as he adds, “Do you two know each other?”

“We were recruits for the Night’s Watch together,” is all Arya offers while Gendry stammers, “Your sister was disguised as a boy amongst us, and when we were attacked by Joffrey’s men, we were sent to Harrenhal together. We escaped together as well. We were traveling together with another lad before Ser Davos saved me.”

“You never mentioned knowing Arya.”

Gendry’s eyes flick up long enough to meet Arya’s before he drops his gaze in deference again. “I thought she was dead, m’lord. When I returned to King’s Landing, they said all the Starks were. Didn’t seem right to bring her up to you.”

Jon shakes his head, a smile stretching across his face. “It would have made our father quite happy to know Arya had a friend in Robert’s son. It would seem you were always meant to be here, Gendry.” He claps the larger boy on the shoulder. “We’re glad to have you.”

Tyrion clears his throat. “If we could return to the task at hand…”

Arya slips out the door without saying a word. She still isn’t certain what she wants to say to Gendry, but she _is_ certain she does not want to say it in front of five other people.

* * *

Jon sneaks into the Dragon Queen’s chambers almost every night.

He is not good at sneaking, her brother, mayhaps even worse at it than he is at lying, and while Arya is sure he is a good soldier and a good leader, he would never have survived life at the House of Black and White. Of course, the queen’s men are not much better at their jobs. Here she is, standing in the shadows, watching as Jon slips into the queen’s rooms, and while Arya doesn’t expect anyone to notice her, none of these men have even looked around with suspicion as if sensing a threat.

If she wanted to kill the queen, it would be easy to do. Lucky for Daenerys Targaryen, anyone Cersei Lannister tries to send will not be as good at killing as Arya is. 

The truth is, she doesn’t mind the Dragon Queen. She does not seem to be cut from the same terrible cloth as Cersei, and her people do not fear her. That alone told Arya near everything she needed to know about her. But she’d promised Sansa she’d make certain Daenerys was not using Jon, and so Arya slips about some nights, taking things in, observing, collecting, deciding. 

At least until the noises to start. Whether for love or for politics, whatever transpires in Daenerys’s rooms is loud and brings a blush to Arya’s cheeks.

She has trouble sleeping most nights, unused to the quiet of Winterfell after so many years spent on the road or in cities. Sometimes she pretends she is back in her cell at the House of Black and White, trying to pretend that she is No One, in hopes that she will fall enough away from herself to find peace enough to sleep soundly. She knows Sansa does not sleep easy either, but she will use some sort of dram to fall into dreamless sleep. A few times they’ve shared a bed since reuniting, and Arya wishes Ramsay Bolton was alive just so she could kill him again for doing whatever it was that makes Sansa whimper, cry, and plead in her sleep. She isn’t certain if Bran sleeps well or not. Asking him questions now rarely results in simple answers.

She isn’t certain what makes her seek out the armory. It’s still sweltering inside, a blessed relief from the frigid night. Though the usual daytime bustle is done, Gendry is still working, carefully crafting some dragonglass into a dagger. He must have been at it for hours because he is down to only a pair of breeches, his back and chest slick with sweat and soot. Whatever he is doing to the blade, he finishes with a relieved sigh, setting it on the bench with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

“What are you doing?”

Gendry almost leaps out of his skin at the sound of her voice, stumbling backwards away from the bench. “Seven hells! You scared me to death!”

“We’re about to go to war, and someone asking you a question scares you?”

He grabs his discarded shirt, pulling it over his head. Arya cannot help but admire the rippling of his abs as the fabric settles over his body. “You cannot be here. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Where else am I supposed to go? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t know! But you can’t – Do you know what will happen to me if they find you here?!”

“No one saw me. No one ever sees me.” She approaches his work bench, ignoring the way he backs away from her as she does. “What were you working on?”

As she lifts the dagger to study it, he offers, “I haven’t worked with dragonglass as often as steel. I wanted to get a little more practice in before we start tomorrow. You think it’s good?”

Arya weighs the heft of the dagger, miming some precise strikes against an invisible opponent. “It’s good.” Setting it back on the bench, she turns to face him, rolling her eyes at how much distance he’s been able to put between them. “I didn’t come to rape you, stupid.”

The look he gives her tells her just how much he thinks _she_ is the stupid one. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Why not? Everybody else is. They all think I’m going to kill them in their sleep.”

“Well I heard you killed some lord in the great hall in front of everyone. And you _did_ try to kill Beric.”

“So you _are_ afraid.”

Gendry runs a hand through his wild hair. “I’m not afraid of you. You might have changed, but I saw your face when you saw me in the yard. You aren’t my enemy.”

Arya takes a step forward only for Gendry to step back. Raising her chin, she challenges, “Then why won’t you come near me?”

“Because we aren’t on the road anymore. This isn’t some muddy clearing, and Hot Pie isn’t here to keep us company. People may be scared of you, but you’re still Arya Stark of Winterfell; you’re still a lady.” He gestures to their surroundings. “And I’m the bastard armorer who swore himself into your brother’s service.”

“My mother was a lady, and she still spoke to our armorer.”

“Spoke to? Yeah. But visited him alone? Came to him in the middle of the night?” Gendry shakes his head. “If someone found you here tonight, it wouldn’t be you that gets dragged in front of Jon and the Queen. It certainly wouldn’t be you that gets gelded. I have to remember my place.”

Arya stops her forward advancement, and suddenly she is back in that cave, offering him the chance to be her family only for him to turn her away. Mayhaps he’s right. For all that she has changed, she isn’t so different from the girl she was when he knew her.

 _Why can’t your place be with me?_ she wants to ask, heart aching and throat thick with emotion.

Instead she turns back to his workbench and looks at the dagger one last time. Softly she says, “Jon and Daenerys will be happy with your work,” before slipping back into the castle, afraid she might cry and hating herself for it.

* * *

Jon is the one who tells her. When he asks her to join him in the godswood, Arya wondered if he was going to confess his relationship with Daenerys to her, and she’d been prepared to tease him about it. She suspected there was no one left in the North who didn’t know about Jon and the queen, but Jon seemed to think she was still a little girl. It was why Arya went along with him, content to let him “surprise” her with the news of his love.

Instead they sit beside the pool in front of the heart tree and Jon says, “Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.”

For a second Arya doesn’t understand what he is saying. And then she laughs, startled. “What are you talking about? No, he wasn’t.”

Jon winces. “Arya – “

“Father was your father. You look exactly like him. How could you be Rhaegar Targaryen’s son if you look like a Stark?”

“Because Aunt Lyanna was my mother.”

Arya doesn’t realize she’s shaking her head until her hair falls loose from its tie. Only then does she stop and say, “Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna. She died in Dorne. Father said – “

“They eloped,” Jon cuts in, pain in his face, “and she died giving birth to me. Bran saw it. You know what he sees – “

Arya leaps to her feet. “I don’t care what Bran saw! He’s wrong! It’s fake! Your father was Ned Stark! Your mother was Ashara Dayne! Everyone said so! Your parents weren’t Rhaegar and Lyanna. Father would’ve told you!”

“King Robert hated the Targaryens. He wanted all of them dead. He sent assassins after Daenerys and her brother. If he would’ve known about me, he would’ve killed me too. Father had to keep it secret – “

“He didn’t keep it secret because it’s not true! You’re my brother!”

Jon gets to his feet, catching her shoulders. “And I’ll always be your brother just as you will always be my little sister. Blood will never change that.”

As Arya tries to wrap her head around what he is saying, something occurs to her. “Rhaegar married Aunt Lyanna.”

Jon nods.

“Then you’re not a bastard, are you? You’re…what, Jon Targaryen?”

He smiles sadly. “I think I’ll be Jon Snow until the day I die. I meant what I said, Arya. This doesn’t change anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “It changes _everything_ , and you know it.” 

Jon envelopes her in his arms, holding her tight against his chest. “Not with us, little sister, not ever.”

But even as he says it, even though Arya knows he means it, she can’t help but feel as if she has lost another person.

* * *

“It’s like something from a song,” Sansa says that evening as she and Arya lay side by side in Sansa’s bed, the moonlight casting a silver glow to her big sister’s skin. “They must have loved each other very much. He went to war to be with her.”

“And his first wife and kids got killed because of it, he got killed, Aunt Lyanna died, and Jon grew up thinking he was a bastard. That’s a pretty terrible song.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say it was a _good_ thing what they did, just that it was like a song I would’ve liked when I was a child.”

Arya adjusts her head on the pillow. “Would you have done what Father did?”

“How do you mean?”

“If I had a child and someone wanted it dead, would you pretend it was yours to keep it safe like Father did for Aunt Lyanna?”

“Of course,” she answers, a hint of offense in her voice at the idea the answer might’ve been different. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt you or your child.”

Arya is almost asleep when Sansa murmurs, “Robb’s baby would be the same age Rickon was when we left for King’s Landing.”

She keeps her eyes shut tight to keep the tears behind her lids. “Sometimes I forget what he looked like. Mother too.”

“We were so young.” 

_We still are_ , Arya almost says but all she can think about is that terrible night at the Twins, the blurry vision of her big brother’s mutilated body being paraded about by the fucking Freys, and she wonders how she could wipe out an entire house and still feel helpless.

* * *

“I saw Hot Pie.”

Gendry looks up from shaping a sword, face slick with sweat, and even though the forge is bustling with people, Arya makes sure to keep a careful distance so he does not worry about getting in trouble. “You did?”

She nods. “When I was in the south after I came back, I found him at the inn. He made me bread shaped like a wolf.”

Gendry smiles. “Was it good?”

“His bread was always good.”

“I miss him sometimes.” Using a set of tongs to plunge the sword into the flames, he adds, “He never seemed to let things get to him.”

“Seems funny now, how you tried to protect me from him back then.”

His smile widens. “If memory serves, you held that sword of yours to his stomach. Think you would’ve been fine on your own.”

“But it was nice, having a friend.” She gestures vaguely at their surroundings. “I never had many friends before you.”

Gendry falters for a moment before admitting, “Me either.”

She holds his gaze for a moment and there is something about the way he is looking at her that makes her feel the need to fill the silence in a way she never has. It is the only excuse for why she blurts out, “All the Baratheons are dead, you know.”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re Robert’s son. Cersei had all his other bastards killed, and Renly and Stannis are dead. If you asked Daenerys to legitimize you, Storm’s End could be yours. You could be a lord.”

Wiping his hands on his apron, he shakes his head. “The queen is willing to forget I’m Robert’s son because I’m making them weapons, but I don’t think she’s going to do any favors to restore the house of a man who destroyed hers.”

“You didn’t even know Robert. And it would be the least she could do if you’re making all the weapons.” When he gives no sign of agreeing, she adds, “I could talk to her for you if you’d like.”

“I don’t care about being a lord.”

“But it’s more than just a title – “

“Why do you care?” he asks. “What does it matter?”

Temper flaring, she snaps, “I don’t! I don’t care if you’re a lord or a bloody bastard. But _you_ care! You said we can’t be friends because I’m a lady.”

Looking around at the men and women now surreptitiously stealing glances at them, Gendry flushes as he approaches her. Dropping his voice, he says, “You need to go.”

Arya crosses her arms over her chest, feeling more stubborn than she has in years. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

“You’re going to get me killed!”

“If you keep being so fucking stupid, I’ll kill you myself!”

It thrills her when Gendry grabs her by the upper arm, pulling her out of the forge and into the space between the forge and another building. Her back is against the stone as he crowds her, but Arya doesn’t feel intimidated or afraid. If anything, she feels truly alive for the first time since arriving at Winterfell, like she finally has a worthy adversary again even if it _is_ her best friend.

“What do you want from me?” Gendry demands. “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything! I don’t know! The Red Woman took you, and you were just gone! I thought you were dead, and I mourned you. And then I swore I’d kill Thoros and Beric and the Red Woman too because they took you. But then you were here and I thought we’d be friends again, but you’ve gotten all weird!”

“You think you’re the only one who mourned? Everyone said the Starks were dead. I waited and I listened, and you never showed up again. I thought at first maybe you survived because if anyone could survive on their own, it would be you. Then came the stories about Sansa Stark reappearing from nowhere and marrying the Bolton bastard and still I thought you might be out there. But you never came back and then Davos was in my shop wanting my help so I thought if I couldn’t do right by you, I could do it for your brother.”

“Well I’m here now! I’m here and you’re here, and there’s no reason we have to go around pretending like we aren’t friends!”

“You think I like this? You think I don’t want you in the forge, driving me crazy with whatever it is that comes to mind? But you’re a lady – “

“Do not call me – “

“They’ll all think I’m trying to take advantage – “

“Do you honestly think anyone would believe – “

Arya grunts as Gendry presses his mouth against her, swallowing her words. She’s never been kissed, not proper like this, and she isn’t certain what to do. The times she’d seen men and women kissing, the woman always seemed to be touching the man; her mother had always touched her father’s cheek with tenderness, but Arya knows she isn’t the tender sort. Instead she tentatively braces her hands against Gendry’s broad chest and tries to match the motion of his mouth. 

Gendry pulls back, a curious mixture of desire and frustration in his face, as he growls, “You’ll get me killed, Arya.”

Twisting her fists into the front of his shirt, Arya holds him in place as she goes up on her toes. “I’m pretty good with a sword. I’ll protect you.”

Their second kiss comes easier, their third easier still.

* * *

“Have you ever been in love?” Arya asks Sansa as they stand on the battlements and watch Jon and Daenerys flying atop Rhaegal and Drogo.

Sansa shakes her head.

“I think Jon loves her. Daenerys, I mean. And I think she loves him too.”

“Not so tricky then.”

“Not about him.” Arya swallows the fear in her throat to manage, “I think I’m in love too.”

Sansa looks at her from the corner of her eye, a smirk on her lips. “Gendry or Podrick?”

“What? Why would you – “

“They both look at you like lovestruck fools. I assumed it must be one or the other.”

Arya tries to remember Podrick’s face during her sparring sessions with Brienne, but she cannot think of anything especially significant occurring between the two of them. “Not Podrick.” When Sansa says nothing, she prods, “You don’t think it’s wrong, me and Gendry?”

“I think we’ve both seen enough wrongness in this world to know two people in love hardly qualifies.” Sansa turns to look at her, a soft smile on her face. “He makes you happy?”

She nods.

“Then you have my blessing.” As Jon and Rhaegal fly overhead, she adds, “But you may want to speak carefully to Jon. He’s delicate about these things.”

It’s hard to imagine a dragon rider to be delicate about anything, but Arya nods anyway.

* * *

He shapes the dragonglass with such care and precision, it reminds Arya of water dancing. As she sits perched on a stool watching him work, Arya thinks of Syrio, of the way the wooden practice sword he’d taught her with had seemed like an extension of his body. Gendry’s hammer is like that, and the way the muscles in his arm and back ripple with each movement are a dance in and of themselves. 

“I hate it when you stare,” Gendry says, setting down the hammer and grabbing tongs. 

“I’m not staring, I’m watching.”

He walks the blade he just crafted towards the fire, thrusting it inside the flames with the tongs. “Want to be an armorer’s apprentice, do you?”

“Suppose I’ll need a trade after the war is done and I’ve killed everyone that needs killing.”

Arya sees the hint of a smile on his sooty face. “Did you forget you’re a lady? Ladies don’t learn trades.” He gestures towards their surroundings. “Won’t you do something around the castle?”

“Like what? What do you think ladies do?”

Gendry shrugs. “Never really thought about it much, to be honest. You were the first one I ever met.”

She smirks. “If you want to learn about ladies, you should talk to Sansa. Daenerys even.”

He shakes his head, pulling the blade from the flames and submerging it into a nearby cooling barrel. “I’m a bastard armorer without a single coin to my name. You think I can just walk up to the Queen and ask her questions?”

“Queens are just people. They bleed like the rest of us.” She watches as he removes the dragonglass sword from the barrel and notices it is far too small for any of the men yet too large to be a dagger. “Did you measure it wrong?”

He gives her a look Arya cannot quite name as he picks it up by its slender handle. “No matter how good you are with that blade of yours, you can’t fight the Others with it. You’ll need dragonglass.”

It is only then Arya realizes that Gendry has replicated Needle, and it cracks her heart open.

* * *

“If we win the war, are you going to take Jon to King’s Landing?”

Daenerys looks startled at the question, and Missandei pointedly lowers her eyes as if she is not hearing what Arya is asking. Arya, however, does not look away from the older woman, waiting. After what seems like an interminably long time, she says, “I do not plan to kidnap him, if that’s what you’re asking. Jon is a free man. He can choose what he likes.”

“But you want him to go. You want him to be your husband.”

“If that’s what he wants.”

“Is it because he has a better claim to the throne that you?” When Daenerys only stares at her, amusement and irritation warring on her face, Arya continues, “Because if he _is_ Rhaegar’s son, that makes _him_ the heir, not you. So if you married him, it would help put that aside, wouldn’t it?”

Daenerys takes a sip of her wine. “He said you were more direct than your sister, but I don’t think I was expecting you to be _this_ direct.”

“Sansa is the politician.”

“And what are you?”

“The executioner.”

“Are you planning on executing me, Arya? Is that to be my punishment for loving Jon Snow?”

“I don’t care if you love him. I want him to be happy, and you seem to make him happy. But I just got him back.”

“I don’t wish to take him from you.”

“But you will because that’s what queens do: they take.” When Daenerys doesn’t deny it, she adds, “He’d be miserable in the South, you know. He doesn’t want to be a king. I don’t care how much dragon’s blood he has, he’s a Stark. He’ll always be a Stark.”

“I know.” She sighs, leaning back into her chair. “It’s strange but you are the first true family I’ve ever known. It was just my brother and I, and Viserys was…difficult. The love and loyalty you and your siblings, including Jon, have for each other, I confess it’s foreign to me. But it is also all I ever longed for as a child. You must have been very happy here when you were young.”

“Yes.”

“I would like for you all to be happy again. Whatever Jon decides, please know I am not here to separate you. I didn’t intend to fall in love with Jon, and maybe I shouldn’t love him now knowing what we know. But we cannot help who we love, and I hope the fact that Jon loves me is enough to show you I am not your enemy.”

Arya gets to her feet. “Just because you don’t _want_ to hurt us, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

Her father loved King Robert, called him his dearest friend. King Robert would never have done anything to hurt Ned Stark. And yet it was her father’s love for the king that blinded him so much, it eventually ruined all of their lives.

Sometimes love _is_ the enemy.

* * *

“I don’t want to ruin you,” Gendry pants against her mouth as they lay twisted in his narrow cot, Arya beneath him, their legs hopelessly tangled as they move against each other.

 _I’ve been ruined for years_ , Arya wants to say, but she knows what he means, her stupid, honorable bastard boy. 

“Who would you ruin me for, the line of lords who want to ask for my hand?” She nips his lower lip, tastes iron. “We could die in three days’ time.”

“So those are your options, being killed by the Others or bedding me?”

“I suppose I could bed someone else if you’re going to be so stupid about this.”

He bites at her collarbone, and Arya keens, arches into the pain. She tugs at his shirt, and this time Gendry pulls it over his head, dropping it beside the cot. As his hand finds the hem of her own tunic, his blue eyes meet hers as he says, “I love you.”

Arya wants to say it back. She wants to scream it, shout it, tell everyone in the entire North how she feels. But it sticks in the back of her throat, this new and terrifying feeling, and she thinks about the Others advancing on Winterfell, on just how true what she said is: in three days, the Others will reach Winterfell and she or Gendry may fall. There is a chance she might survive and Gendry might not, and if she tells him how she feels, if she breathes it into existence, she is afraid she might never recover from losing him all over again.

Instead she whispers, “Love me after we win.”

Later, as she lays in the circle of his arms, her head swimming with thoughts of Gendry, Jon and Daenerys, Sansa and Bran, Arya wishes she could be No One, wishes she could turn off these feelings until the war is over and she knows how much of her is left.

But she has never been able to be No One, and so when Gendry whispers her name, she lifts her face towards his and requests, “Say my name again.”

This night, as she falls asleep, for the first time in years she does not name the people on her list, the ones who still deserve to taste her revenge. Instead she whispers the names of those she’s lost and hopes they hear her, that they know she’s never forgotten them.

“Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, Syrio, Jory, Rodrik, Septa Mordane, Mycah, Lommy, Lady, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog…”

Arya prays to every god – the Old Ones, the New, the God of Death – that she does not need to add any more names to this list. 

She needs the pack to survive.


End file.
